A Reasonable Facsimile of Success
by razor840
Summary: This is AU from Human Error. Cameron and Chase stay in Arizona and manage to find some general level of happiness and functionality. This is rated M for some language and adult themes, it is written from Cameron's perspective. I'm done with this now.
1. Chapter 1

I've never been so indulgent. I take that back. I've indulged in my obsessions. I've nearly overdosed on other peoples' lives but I've never laid in bed all day. I've never eaten ice cream right out of the carton, I've never sat in front of the television smoking a joint and watching Peoples' Court. Chase should be dragging himself through the door soon and I forgot to make him anything for dinner. I should order some pizza or something. I know I'll be hungry later. When we (Foreman, Chase, and myself) left House, and I call it leaving House because he was the only reason we were there in the first place, I always thought Foreman would get the massive success and the accolades. I always saw something in Chase that was special, a particular kind of intelligence that spoke to possible future greatness. Maybe I didn't have all the confidence in the world but I always hoped I could get a job helping people, connecting with people. I always wanted to be a force for good in the world.

Sometimes finding success is like looking for truffles: there is no set area to search, no rhythm or reason to why things happen, and it really doesn't matter how hard you work or how long you look. In my darker hours, I sometimes feel as though I totally don't deserve what I have. I once stayed at the office for a month straight, when we were desperately trying to meet a specific FDA deadline but steel workers do a hard, difficult day of work as well and they don't get multi-million dollar stock option packages. They don't get millions more when their company is bought out by a Chinese Drug Conglomerate. Sometimes I feel an overwhelming sense of failure.

I was obsessed. I think I might have fallen in love with the project. I was giddy, riding the highs and the lows of the job and I might have lost Chase somewhere in all of that. We still don't communicate as well as I think we should. I lose more of my recollection of Daniel every year. I worry that I'm placing unrealistic expectations on my relationship with Chase. Danny and I fought, Danny and I had rough times. It just seemed like connecting with people was easier back then. I don't know what has changed. I should call House and we could run a differential on my love life. I don't have a white board to write symptoms on and they get all jumbled in my head.

When I was at PPTH, I wanted respect so badly that I was almost paranoid about it. I got angry at Cuddy for no reason, I wanted House to do…something. It took me a couple of years to realize that the whole exercise was pointless. House was never going to respect me and my non-diagnostics fellow colleagues looked at me like someone would look at one of those Fear Factor (thank you again daytime TV) contestants. I could almost hear the question. Why would you subject yourself to that?

From a career standpoint, it was a good move for me. I was a good top tier candidate but certainly not even close to the best. I did my undergrad at Wisconsin, I was competing with people who went to non-State schools. Even with my Mayo Clinic internship, Chase and Foreman were both more impressive than me from a CV standpoint. I like to think that I'm a bit more self aware these days. I can admit it. I wonder though, if I could still admit it even if I wasn't worth more than both of them put together, ten times over.

I love the weather in Arizona. It never snows. It rarely gets below sixty-five degrees. I would always laugh when Chase whined about how cold it got in New Jersey. It was actually kind of cute. Now he whines about the heat and I still think it's kind of cute. Chase thinks I should come work at Phoenix General with him but I don't feel up to it. After three years of endless research and endless trials, I honestly don't feel like I can physically practice medicine again just yet. My head isn't where it should be for something like that. I feel like I've aged ten years in three. I was truly obsessed, I remember House talking about his white whale on that horrible casino night when I had to wear high heels for like twelve hours. I almost wanted to call him and tell him that I knew how it felt. I remember his moment of elation, his moment of triumph. I don't remember having one of those. I just took to my bed and slept, rested, and slept more for almost thirty six hours. It reminded me of meth, of cocaine back in college. All the inspiration happened in the first year and then I spent two years slogging it out in trials, testing, and working through Christmas, through New Years. I remember driving home, weaving all over the road at one point because I almost physically couldn't keep my eyes open. I pulled over and called Chase.

One of these days I hope he'll realize how much I love and respect him. Maybe he'll really open up to me then, and I won't feel like I only have the cliff notes version of his life. I asked him once, if we should take a trip to Australia. I thought maybe he had some cousins, aunts, or grandparents that we could spend some time with. He said he would think about it and got really quiet for a couple days. I'm probably over thinking this. Maybe there really isn't anyone left back home he wants to see. I realize that he has legitimate grounds to worry about whether I am as committed to him as he is to me. I think I see that now but it took me some time to put everything in perspective and I think I may have done some damage in the interim. I don't know if all of that damage is reversible. I know I can dwell on things and pull my cape out of the closet and try to save the world when it really doesn't need saving. I'll always wonder what really happened to the people who left us at PPTH. I know that it isn't my place to try to fix their lives but I also know that House could have managed things without causing so much damage. I wish he could have at least, getting shot couldn't even really change his philosophy in that regard and I'm at a loss as to what could have. I only realized I was completely powerless around the time I started sleeping with Chase. I need to know things, I need to fix things and the hardest part of my relationship with Chase is learning to let things go, to just support him in his life and not interfere.

If I take out my photo albums. I can still map out my entire relationship with Danny through pictures, keepsakes, restaurant menus. I can remember almost everything, every good moment, every bad moment but they just don't seem as alive to me anymore. I think about the details I should have noticed before he told me he was sick. I think about the fact that he seemed to be contracting his life and I didn't notice, because for the first time I really believed that someone loved me. I didn't want to pay attention to all those prescient signs that things were going to go from bad to worse at light speed.

I here a buzzing sound from under the bed and I figure Chase is calling. I probably accidentally kicked the phone under the bed when I got up to get an ashtray. When I notice the New Jersey area code I freeze up a little bit, I'm back in my first year of residency and someone has asked me a question I don't know the answer to. I'm on my hands and knees beside the bed, staring down at my phone and the caller id is showing that the call is coming from the Diagnostics Department at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. It just says House, in all capital letters. He never really called. He would just page us back to the hospital. It really pissed Foreman off. I silence the ringer and stretch back out on the bed, trying to organize and collect my thoughts, hoping he just won't call again.

Of course he immediately calls back. I silence the ringer again. This isn't going to work. House is the one person in the world I really have no desire to talk to. That might be a lie. If I had to list the lowest points in my life (personally, professionally,) my interactions with him would be heavily featured on the list. Not at the top but I can think of at least five cringe worthy events just off the top of my head. I don't want to be that person anymore, even though I realize that person wasn't all bad. I like to think that I finally just took the good from my fellowship and left all the bad behind. One of the reasons I can believe this is because I'm not around House anymore and he isn't constantly pulling the rug out from under me, the minute I struggle back to my feet. I feel guilty because I really do owe him a great deal and he wouldn't (well he might but…) call me after a three year clean break for no reason. Of course, he always viewed my awe of him as weakness and I finally realized that he wasn't the kind of person who needed support, he knew he was right and he didn't need anyone to stand behind him. He certainly didn't need me. I worry that somewhere in my subconscious I want him to tell me he's proud of me again. Logically I know that isn't going to happen this time, because in his view I probably look like another Vogler and House always hated the business side of medicine. I haven't seen a real patient or diagnosed an illness in over two years. I can catalogue, almost to the day, all of my time spent with him. Every patient, every mistake I made, every unethical act, every time he forced me to change my worldview, every time he made me feel like a naïve little school girl who had no business in such a demanding, high level fellowship. For him, it was probably just an annoyance but for me it was extremely painful in many ways. I've tried to escape the obsession, because I've learned it doesn't make me happy.

Chase picked out the house. I wasn't willing to pay up for anything in this particular market. He said it reminded him of his grandparents' house outside of Sydney and I had to use every ounce of strength I had not to beg him to elaborate. Did he sit outside on their deck in the summer? Did he and his grandfather hunt foxes? I worry that I'm fabricating a fictional childhood for Chase sometimes, imagining what was really bad and what was really good. It makes me sad to think that maybe it was mostly bad, I guess I'm still kind of pathetic in that way. I want him to be happy, I want everything to be perfect between us and I realize how crazy that is, how faulty my thinking is but I can't help it. I know he deserves whatever it is that he's looking for, but I just hope he doesn't wake up one day and realize that I'm not really it. We love each other. I just don't want to feel like he's teaching me how to be human. I'm not really wild about the house, it looks like someone dropped an English country home into the middle of the desert. I'm sure the now bankrupt land developer thought it was extremely classy. I never wanted to be one of those poor rich people but it seems like I can't escape it. Chase floats along, chatting easily with our 'friends' at the country club, at the squash court and I just feel like I don't belong there, like they're going to take one look at me and know that my father was a truck driver and my mother was a teacher's aid. I get inexplicably angry and I'm transported back to the first year of my fellowship. I feel like they can see how many times I've eaten at Shoney's every time I don't know who painted that painting, or how much you're supposed to tip the coat check guy. I honestly thought that no one really used those overly elaborate place setting anymore, the ones with four knives and a spoon for every course, and now I know they do. I also know that Chase knows exactly what every piece of cutlery is for. I mentioned that after the dinner party and he just smiled and laughed, I couldn't tell if he was being condescending.

I like us the best when we're hanging out at a bar and Chase just looks utterly content, grinning at me when he walks up to the counter to buy us another round. I'll sit through a soccer game just so I can watch him. I think he could have been happy all of the time and anywhere if it wasn't for his family. When he talks about his work, I see his genius shine just as bright as it did when we worked together at PPTH but without the violence, the distrust, he doesn't wince like he's waiting for someone to take him to task. He's a better doctor than I am.

I think I like him the best when he comes home after it seems like he's been at the hospital for days. I wait for him to get out of the shower and I massage his neck and back. His face falls slack with an equal measure of weariness and pleasure. Sometimes we fuck. Sometimes I just curl up next to him and run my fingers through his hair until he falls asleep. I actually like it long and messy, the way he has it now. I sometimes worry that sex and the physical part of out relationship is too much at the forefront of who we are together.

When I was living in the lab, sometimes he would get angry. I would respond with confusion and anger because I always thought work came first. It was a way to compartmentalize your life. Your work was always the most important thing. I started getting more and more contentment from Chase and our life together, and work was like an obsession, an addiction that was taking me away from him. I could lecture anywhere, pretty much any drug company would hire me at the moment but I feel like I need this time with Chase, I need to make sure we're ok.

I know I'm high because my internal monologue is rapid and disjointed. Various fragments pop into my head with no real organization, no filter. I think what I remember most about House were the quiet moments, when he sat alone in his office and listened to music. I'd sit in the conference room, reading obscure German Medical Journals, translated on Babelfish, and sneak glances at him through the glass. Sometimes he looked defiant, sometimes grimly content, and once or twice he almost looked defeated. I still don't know if my desire to really get deep into his head was evidence of some kind of pathetic devotion or just a symptom of my being around a truly rare and great genius for so many years. I felt a need, almost an addiction to him. Addiction, obsession, it can make you feel pathetic. I once memorized the lines on his forehead, I once noticed that his mouth would hang a bit slack if he'd taken too much pain medication. I could almost guess, by his expression, by the way he moved, by how pronounced the veins on the hand he held his can were, what his mood was going to be like that day. Even then, I would be wrong as often as I was right. All of this was slowly seeping away, out of my mind, and one call brought everything back.

I get a text message next, another New Jersey area code. I'm in our guest bedroom with the small Panasonic TV and the double bed because I don't want to smoke pot in the master suite. One of the things I now know about Chase is that his mother was an alcoholic, I don't want him to worry. I don't want him to get sullen and not talk. I don't want to have no idea what's wrong.

_You win! I'm resorting to teenage methods of communication. Pick up._

He doesn't bother identifying himself because he knows I'll know who it is. I always found that scary about him, the way he would just look at me and I could tell that he knew exactly what I was thinking. Interacting with that level of genius on a daily basis seemed utterly terrifying at first and I'm out of practice. I'll call him back because with House, I'll always lose in one way or another so I might as well speed up the process. It can still wait a few hours though.

I pick the roach up out of the ashtray and relight it. If I had discovered pot at eighteen, I'd probably be working at a car dealership right now. I'd be a great deal happier and more content. I'd go hiking with whatever boyfriend I had at the time, we'd go to drink and drown karaoke nights, and work would be the thing that took me away from all of the fun. Actually, I don't know if things would be different. House once said I was the type of person that needed everything to be perfect and I think he was right. I think I'm better off now. I'm happy sometimes, I'm content sometimes, I'm lonely sometimes, but I think I know who I am now and I realize that it was all me. I wasn't a bad person, I wasn't a good person, I was just like everyone else. Normal people feel everything, we have highs and lows. I wish I realized that when I worked for House, I wouldn't have felt miserable for feeling miserable.

Now that my head is sufficiently swimming and I feel wrapped in a warm ball of confusion, not calling back at all seems like the best option. Sometimes, when I smoke, things go bad. A million different possible illnesses that result from smoking marijuana seem to run through my head in a never ending loop, I picture myself on the hospital bed, dying of Cadmium poisoning. I chastise myself for how selfish and stupid I'm being. I know better.

House is not a patient man. He calls back. I'm going to have to deal with this eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

I always thought that going into research would signal me throwing in the proverbial towel, admitting that I was too weak, too likely to get attached to patients. I don't think I'll ever forget Cindy Kramer. I almost hoped that she would push me away when I finally told her the truth about her looming death, slap me, be angry that I stole one of her few remaining days. She sat there in shock and then she cried. Her mascara ran, her face contorted, and she tried to talk while taking pained, hiccupping gasps of air. Most people look so ugly when they cry. What was she going to do? She didn't have anyone left who cared about her. Sure, she had some work acquaintances in Cleveland, some college friends, but in the back of my mind I wanted her to tell me that I was pathetic. I wanted her to sue me for taking one of her last days on Earth from her, a day she could have spent with all of her friends. I already knew what wasn't going to happen. I had the whole thing mapped out the minute I looked at the MRI and I did it anyway. To this day, I have a feeling that Wilson thinks I have no business working in medicine.

When I had my ER rotation as a resident, I treated a woman who had been set on fire by her husband. She had third degree burns over most of her body. I only stabilized her because we had to get her into the burn unit as quickly as possible. She asked me if I was a cheerleader and I lied. I made up cheerleading stories while pushing fluids. She mumbled about how pretty she was in a pained whisper. I could barely understand her because her lips and face were so badly burned. She lived. I just don't know how something like that doesn't affect you. I might not fully understand human nature but sometimes I'm still disgusted by it. I can't accept the philosophy that we're all just mice drowning in piss, the idea that we're nothing but animals with cell phones. We have a higher brain, we know what it is right and what is wrong. It was the definition of wrong to send Cindy on her way with a terminal diagnosis and nothing and no one to help her.

With Cindy, I knew what was going to happen. I'd seen it before. I'd seen it on an intimate, day to day level. I wasn't enough for Danny, one person being there for you is never enough when you know you're going to die. Still, one person is better than no one. You don't want to lose control of your bowels in front of a stranger, you don't want a stranger to clean your bed sores. Someone should care, it isn't just a naïve mantra, but by the end of my time with House I had already realized that it couldn't be me anymore. It was narcissism at the most nihilistic level. I just didn't want to tell her that she was going to die alone, in a couple of months. I couldn't just write her a prescription and send her home with some numbers for home care nurses and psychologists. Logically, that was what I should have done but I just couldn't do it.

House really turned me on the to the voyeuristic, compulsive side of the diagnostic process. That darkness was always there, I think. He just gave me my first proverbial hit of that powerful drug. More information was always better, any information at all could take you somewhere. I could go through peoples' drawers, read their journals, discover their deepest hopes and desires, all in the name of helping the patient and doing what was right. I kept asking Cindy question after question, pleading with her to tell me that there was someone she could call, someone who could be there for her. I hadn't given up yet at that point in my life and career, I felt like I still knew that there was a right thing to do, a wrong thing to do. These absolutes do exist but I now realize how intangible they are, how little they really matter in the grand scheme of things. I'm not a weak person, if I was wrong in how I handled Cindy Kramer's case, I think I was still right to some degree. Her need to know wasn't overshadowed by her need to be taken care of. In a perfect world, a whole community would have come out of the wood work and committed themselves to taking care of her. In a perfect world she wouldn't have had no one, and Daniel wouldn't just have had me. I was barely out of my undergraduate program when Daniel died. I didn't really know what was going on. They told me it was touch and go. They told me he might pull through. I hadn't had a conversation with his oncologist for almost a month when he died. He didn't have good insurance. It was like dealing with the DMV, the IRS. I'll never truly be alright with that aspect of medicine. This, more than anything, was why I quit working with patients after House. I got angrier and angrier the more I thought about it.

I think about her more and more. What were her last days like? Did she have anyone to talk to? I never viewed eternity as something we could process, I could never see anyone being alright with the finality and the total mystery of death. I know how the body breaks down, but I don't know what it feels like, what someone's last thoughts are, what they actually perceive in their last moments of life. People would probably say I have a problem dealing with death but I don't think I do. I have a problem with how we deal with it as a society. I have a problem with everyone being so scared of this natural fact that we can't talk about it, that we can't even try to help each other process it.

Now that I'm in my warm bed, under the covers with nothing to do but think and watch TV, I can put it in perspective and truly see just how wrong and how right I was. My mouth is dry and I'm having that dangerous moment of drug induced inspiration, where I know my thoughts are not nearly as prescient and profound as they seem. I start playing with my phone, the metallic beeps and whines sounding almost musical as I scroll through my address book.

What does House need to talk to me about? I'm already scrolling down to the Ws. Wilson might not respect me but if anyone can help me process this without having to talk to House, it would have to be him. I figure I'll call, he won't answer and I'll leave a message. Maybe he'll get back to me, maybe he won't. I feel a little sweaty, my nerves are getting to me, I feel a tightness in my chest. Talking to Wilson is better than talking to House but he's still a master of verbal Judo and I think I'm still a little in awe of him and his body of work. I just hate it when I feel like I should be sitting at the kid's table and I know my issues of inadequacy are my issues but, other than Chase, I just don't know exactly what I feel about the people I worked with when I was at PPTH.

I don't even know if he'll want to talk to me. If I was him, I wouldn't want to talk to me. At one point, I think I almost hated him because he had the relationship that I wanted so badly with House. My thumb lingers over the Send button. I finally get the better of my nerves and call him. I'm surprised and almost inexplicably frightened when I hear a woman's voice after only two rings.

"Hello?" She sounds curious.

"Hi, um, this is Doctor Allison Cameron. I'm trying to reach Doctor Wilson. This might be an old number. I haven't talked to him in a while."

"Oh. No, this is the right number. He was just in the kitchen so I answered his phone. Just let me hand it off to him," I can hear her standing up and moving around.

She sounds kind of annoyed but it is around dinner time, I probably interrupted something. I find it odd, that Wilson is home this early. Maybe he finally found somebody worth the effort. Things can change a great deal in three years.

"Cameron?" Wilson sounds equal parts surprised and happy, I don't know why he'd be happy to hear from me.

"Hi! Dr. Wilson, I'm sorry to impose, I hope I'm not calling too close to dinner time. I didn't realize you had company. I was just going to leave you a message. I hate to do this but I need to talk to you about House, he's been trying to reach me and I was just wondering if maybe you knew what it was about. If he really does need something I would feel obligated but if not…" My voice sounds so weird in my head, every misspoken word, every pause that seems too long stands out.

"If he doesn't really need anything, you'd rather not have a conversation with him, I understand. First, let me say that I'm really happy to hear from you. We all thought you'd fallen off the Earth until we saw your face on CNBC. House was making Unabomber jokes." I begin to think that maybe there were other reasons he and I had issues.

"Well, my last year with House, I didn't really treat you very well. I said some disrespectful things. I've thought about what I should and shouldn't apologize for. I was happy, I think and I came to terms with the fact that I wasn't really at all important to him, the way you were. Maybe I wanted to be and maybe I was a little jealous. I just hope you understand that I did care about him and maybe you and I didn't always see eye to eye, but I always respected you for being his friend, for trying to help him. He's been calling since yesterday and if it turns out to be some elaborate game, I would just prefer not to participate," my eyes get wider and wider as I just can't seem to stop talking.

"Are you high?" It comes after a long pause on his part, he's chuckling lightly and I can picture him grinning, just a ghost of a smile on his face.

"I think you know what I'm going to tell you. There might be something to it, there might not be. We're talking about House here. Even with my twenty years of knowledge and insight into his psyche, I really can't tell you what he wants. He might have taken too many pills, or he might really need something. Don't fall into that trap. Don't try to analyze the situation and come up with a plan. I think I've finally come to the conclusion that doesn't work. Call him, talk to him, see what he wants. I also want you to know that I don't have any hard feelings about the whole Tritter situation. You didn't have all of the information." He sounds at peace and I try to push down the envy I feel because I don't think I'll ever be fully ok with that part of my life.

We talk a little while longer but I encourage Wilson to get back to his dinner after about ten minutes. I don't want his food to get cold. I miss talking to people. Wilson isn't married again but he's been in a relationship with a History Professor named Angie for a couple of months. House hasn't changed. Wilson could give me no clear reason to why House was calling now. Still, it was nice to get details. Like an addict taking their first hit after years of sobriety, I want more and I hate myself just a little bit.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: There is a little bit more sexual type stuff in this chapter.

My bathroom in Princeton consisted of one sink, a toilet, and a tiny shower. Now, I have a master bath that is larger than that entire apartment. Our shower will seat eight people comfortably, although it has only ever had Chase and I in it at the same time. I have four Kohler WaterTile panels in the ceiling. I think the control panel for the whole thing is more complicated than an MRI. It has ten acupuncture jets, and five adjustable water jets. I love the vitamin C infused filters, everything feels better; my skin, my hair. I love stretching out and letting warm water rain down on me. I remember white tile in my apartments, at my parent's house. I remember the smell of Lysol and Scrubbing Bubbles. I feel so indulgent using the expensive, less acrid cleaners but I remember standing in my parents' bathroom and never wanting to smell that again. I had everything tiled in a calming, deep blue. I got really good deals on everything because, unfortunately, all of the contractors are destitute right now. One of the things I do love about the house is that it already had a steam room. A real steam room is so much better than a steam shower. Sometimes when I'm soaking in my zero edge Japanese soaking tub, I begin to feel incredible, crippling guilt. I can run away from everything, I can lock myself up in this house but pain, poverty, everything I once thought I cared about still exists. Now I feel like part of the problem, I never felt like that before.

All of my appliances are Energy Star, I use low flow faucet aerators, pretty much everything we have is environmentally friendly. I still can't help but think about Sebastian Charles and how much he could have used all the money I spent on my bathroom. I did write him another check, but I felt worse about it this time, even though it was ten times more than what I had given him previously. I just feel like I'm trying to assuage my guilt. I sometimes think that if I were to liquidate everything, I could probably solve one of the world's problems for ever. Knowledge, coming to terms with all of this, learning to live in the real world, I wish it wasn't so unbelievably painful. Problems don't just need money, they need inspiration, they need someone who will struggle back to their feet after getting knocked down. I don't know if I can be that person anymore.

Dr. Charles emails me pictures. I see TB clinics in Accra, in the urban areas of Sierra Leone. I see children covered in sweat, sprawled on top of each other in dirty rooms with not enough beds. I look at the vomit and shit stained floors, the infections that will without a doubt kill at least ten percent of the kids in that particular room. I see a picture of a little girl with TB, she had already survived being tortured, raped, getting her legs amputated by the military dictatorship, and TB will kill her. I look at her eyes and they are huge and empty, and I think maybe she's looking forward to it. Maybe she's hoping the pain will just go away.

If I had one of those murderers, one of those government officials that caused so much pain and killed so many people, chained in my basement right now, I couldn't turn the other cheek. I'd push fluids and slowly make him feel every bit of the anguish and fear that he unleashed on all of those innocent people, I'd keep him alive for months and torture him everyday. I would be totally confident that I was doing the right thing.

Sometimes I'll and look at those pictures for hours. I would call it fascinating, what we can do to each other. We're capable of intentional cruelty. You don't even have to believe that a man could do such horrible things to a little six year old girl, it isn't even debatable, you can see concrete examples of it every day, every minute.

I'm thinking of volunteering at a free clinic in Phoenix. It might help me get back into medicine. It might help keep some of my darker musings at bay. I think of the things I love and I realize that I can't live in my head, I can't keep a constant vigil on everything that is wrong with the world. I like feeling happy and motivated. I like sitting on the deck in the early morning, feeling the sun come up fully and begin to burn away the morning dew. I like the smell of the grass, I like how blue the sky is. I like that moment of inspiration, when I'm reading a journal.

I feel content again, once I realize this is normal. Guilt is normal, anger is normal, frustration is normal. I'm ok with being normal, I'm happier not wearing a mask anymore, the person under that mask might have always been a little scary, a little selfish. I'm still worthwhile, I think Chase loves me in spite of all my little peccadilloes, my eccentricities, the darkness, the anger.

I'm with Chase in my shower right now, running a soapy sponge over his tensed shoulders. I can feel his tightness slowly melt away as the warm water falls down on him, and I continue with my ministrations. I press myself up against his back and kiss his earlobe. He's almost giddy with exhaustion. He gave me a kiss when he came in and he tasted like mint, coffee, and onions. I dim the lights a little bit, using the shower's remote control. I like showering with him. I like knowing that he is totally comfortable being naked around me. His hair feels soft to the touch, I turned him on to leave in conditioner so he doesn't have frizzy, heavy metal hair.

I don't want him to change how he dresses. I don't mind if he does but I don't want it to be because of me. I think when you're committed to someone, when you cohabitate with someone, you make changes to your life. This whole process was just terribly frightening, the whole idea of sharing a space with someone, of letting someone see me in my robe and chemical mask on Sunday morning.

Chase just needs to turn off. To sleep for awhile. I want him to eat something first though. He's drying off and putting on pajama bottoms and a shirt that advertises some Australian radio station that I've never heard of before, so I don't get the joke.

"So, how about a glass of wine? I can make you a piece of fish. I have some of that salad you liked left, then we can go get in the sauna and I'll give you a real massage," I don't know what it is but I can't sound sexy to save my life, there is something earthy, naturally beautiful, almost sultry about Chase that I'll never posses or really understand but I know that I like it.

I read the wine journal. I cross reference what specific brand of wine goes with which specific fish and I think there is something wrong with me because the cheap box of Chablis is still one of my favorite things and the only wine I keep in the house. Chase will come home with something really expensive, really special and I'll feel bad because I can't really tell the difference.

"Maybe we can just skip the food. I'm exhausted. Sorry I didn't call. I've been running a differential for hours and still nothing seems to fit right. I'm thinking a bleeding disease but the clotting tests are all fine. Still, she's had three major bleeds," he's lounging on the bed, playing with the remote but not actually turning the TV on.

He continues, listing the symptoms. He seems tired but I can see flashes of inspiration, the full force of the mental exertion sparkling in his hooded, almost lethargic eyes. After years of House, I have about five possible diseases in my head in minutes. I feel an almost magnetic pull toward my office, where I can reference my journals, maybe look over whatever paper work Chase brought home. Before I can stop it, we're Chase and Cameron again.

"Alright, take off your shirt and roll over. If you're going to risk your health for this, at least you should be relaxed."

He grins, rolling over. I straddle his hips and start running my fingers through his hair. He's talking but nothing good will come out of this, he's just too tired, he's hit the wall. House never understood that. I gently massage his temples, running my fingers behind his ears and down along the sides of his neck. I can see his breathing start to even out, he's breathing out in atonal moans. I start working on his knotted back and shoulder muscles and he seems to deflate.

"Christ, that feels good," he whispers with a mix of pleasure and discomfort as I jab at a particularly tough knot.

He's asleep in a couple of minutes. I realize I didn't tell him that House called. Technically I didn't talk to him but I still should have relayed that particular piece of information. We shouldn't have secrets like that. I calm myself, I stop the self-flagellation. That conversation would not have been fun on this particular night.


	4. Chapter 4

I first met Daniel at a house party in college. His eyes looked like red saucers and he was sitting in front of a huge plate of cocaine. Some rap song was playing outside and people were dancing, a bunch over privileged white kids grinding on each other to songs about privation and crack dealing. I remember the music as being like a deafening hum, I was wasted and everything seemed murky and dangerous. All of the lights were dimmed in the room and my roommate's boyfriend had promised us shots of Captain Morgan's. _Cosmic Charlie_ by the Grateful Dead was barely recognizable over the bass line from _Cop Killer. _It was practically shaking the walls. He had taken a blanket and cut a hole in it, he was wearing it like a poncho. He was sniffing and rubbing his nose. I remember him licking my face.

I saw him a couple of weeks later and it seemed like we were two totally different people. He liked to talk about socialism, he was always planning to go to the next WTC summit and never following through. I can admit now that our relationship probably wouldn't have lasted. We probably still would have gotten married or possibly just have lived together for along time if he hadn't been diagnosed, but we were never really comfortable with each other. I can't really recall a quiet moment, a moment where I felt truly content. There was always this urgent itch just under the surface that we could never really scratch. I didn't mind it as much at the time but thinking back, he was almost always high. It was easier to focus on schoolwork when my boyfriend really didn't want to go out and do things. I'd spend nine hours straight on my Organic Chemistry homework and he'd just be there, watching the same movie for the fiftieth time. We had boundaries we didn't cross. We had things we didn't demand of each other. He was probably the first truly sweet, tender person I'd ever met. He was the first person who had absolutely no demands or expectations. His…lightness was just intoxicating. If anything, my obsessive compulsive behavior was even worse back then; I'd have nightmares about showing up late for tests, about forgetting homework assignments, once I woke up in a cold sweat because I dreamt I forgot about an entire class until finals week. Daniel would just smile, make a joke.

We shared a bedroom in a house we rented with six other people. Joe was almost always late with his part of the rent, eventually someone took over his share and he couch surfed for two years. I spent most of my time at the library, hiding up in the stacks. I'd come home and curl up with Daniel in the bed, the sickeningly sweet smell of incense doing a poor job of masking the overwhelming odor of pot.

It was definitely love but it wasn't adult, comfortable love. It was immature, frantic, everything was new. I think it crushed me so badly because I knew from then on that I'd never have that again. I don't even know if I would want that again, we never owned a life together. I feel like maybe I used Daniel as a break from the crushing pressure of trying to get into med school. I never viewed it as a commitment with a time limit though, at the time I truly believed that we were going to be together forever. Everything with Chase wa softer, more contemplative, even when we were fucking each other in exam rooms. With Daniel, I imagined the type of equitable, loving family we'd have. With Chase, it doesn't seem like such a far off, impossible dream.

When he died, I took a semester off. I did some things I'm not very proud of. I remember sitting in front of the liquor store, waiting for it to open. I remember doing bong hits with Joe and sprawling out on the bed, closing my eyes, seeing colors and patterns. If I looked at picture of myself from that time, I'd feel like I was looking at a stranger. Joe and I only fucked once and that was after Daniel died. He started crying half way through it and I held him like a child for the rest of the night. I can't remember what kind of pills we took. It might have been Oxy.

I went to therapy. I started learning how to compartmentalize. I started making the Dean's List. I started coming to terms with my grief. Sometimes, I'll think of him and I'll still feel a pain in my chest.

When he was sick I wanted to know everything. I'd get high and call the hospital, asking them about various vitals I was getting from medical text books. I went on the internet and researched every experimental treatment I could find. I emailed research labs in India. I probably could have actually set up an oncology practice, I was so well informed. I remember seeing annoyance flash in the doctor's eyes, while he was trying to maintain a caring, calm façade. Our parents couldn't be there for us. Daniel's mom wasn't in the picture and his dad couldn't take much time off from his job. He worked at a plant and was constantly on edge about losing his job. My dad was filing for bankruptcy at the time and neither of my parents were too happy about the marriage in the first place. They were still sympathetic, they hugged me, but I just couldn't help but notice the general feeling of disappointment when I was in the room with them. They probably thought I was going to drop out and start stripping or something. When you need someone's love, they have way more power over you than they realize. My parents never realized how easily they could destroy me. In their defense, I needed to toughen up.

House and Chase don't know this story. They know the story of Saint Allison Cameron, the stupid, sweet little girl who married a dying man. I don't like to talk about it. Chase knows that it affects me but it isn't who I am. House saw it as a symptom of some past damage, he was probably mostly interested in how it related to my abilities as a doctor.

I'm in bed next to Chase, staring at the ceiling. He's having a dream and I can't decide whether it is nightmare or not. He talks in his sleep. Sometimes nonsense, sometimes he speaks in Latin. I set my tea cup down on the nightstand and curl up behind him, pressing up against his back. I run my hand over his chest and it seems impossibly smooth too the touch. I like sex. I like seeing how people bend, the noises and expressions people make in their moments of pure elation. I run my nails over his hip bone and he shivers a little bit. I stop, he's tired and I shouldn't wake him up just for sex. I like to try to catalogue everything; the way he breathes, the way sweat mists on his temples, the way he looks me in the eye and there is this dark, needy anger there sometimes.

I like it a little rough. I like it when he pins my wrists down, I like it when he slaps my ass. Sometimes he'll fuck me from behind and he'll lean over and whisper incredibly vile things in my ear. I feel his hot breath on my neck, he'll nibble on my earlobe and I'm in Heaven. It really is the one part of our relationship where I feel like we communicate perfectly.

He'll be up in less than an hour and he'll have to get ready for work. I decide to slip out of bed and make him some breakfast. I grind some beans for espresso. Chase likes it. Some people like those huge, computerized coffee machines but I prefer a traditional Italian stovetop moka pot. I like to feel like I'm actually making something and not just pushing a button. It helps me wake up in the morning. I love the smell of the beans, right after they're ground. We do have a Pasquini Moka Commercial Coffee Grinder, so dosing the beans is pretty much idiot proof. Chase gets angry if I play around with the grind settings. He has it set up exactly how he likes it. I like green tea these days. I get bags of loose tea at Whole Foods. I love the smell. Sometimes I'll grind up some pot really fine and make marijuana tea with some green tea leaves, some whole cream, some mint, and a little butter. I'll drink a big glass and feel like I'm falling off the face of the earth.

Chase eventually wakes up and comes downstairs. I can't really hear him moving around because the house is so big and new. He comes over and gives me a kiss, he tastes fresh again. I crack a couple of eggs into a pan with some margarine. I've got turkey bacon going in the microwave. He must have a little time.

"I'll be pretty late tonight. We have to figure this out," he looks like he didn't get enough sleep. He yawns as he fiddles around with the espresso pot.

"Maybe I'll bring you some lunch. I haven't left the house in days. What's it like out there?"

He rises from the table and walks over to me. He puts his arms around my waist as I stand at the stove, ineffectually poking at the eggs with a spatula.

"You're going to burn yourself," I giggle but it sounds raw, ugly.

"I've missed you so much this week. You should stop by. I think Dr. Scott wants your autograph." I still find it hard to believe that anyone really respects me that much but it seemed like the way my colleagues looked at me changed after I published my findings. People who I knew were ten times better than me gushed and offered me jobs I didn't deserve. Before House, this would have made me the happiest person in the world but now, every short fall, every mistake is magnified and every triumph is a whisper. I'm content this way though, I wouldn't be where I am today if I had been happy with myself. I try to keep things light.

"Is she hot? If she is, you should invite her over. I've always wanted to have a threesome with you."

He smiles, kissing me on the cheek. I decide to talk to him about House. I might as well just get it over with.

"Did you, uh, get any weird calls from Princeton in the last couple of days?" I can't read his features. I don't know if he's confused, I don't know anything and I hate that about him.

"House called me. He was stoned out of his mind. He said I was cock blocking him. It was sad. It reminded me of…some things." He sounds almost wistful, I can hear the contemplation in his voice but I don't know exactly what he's contemplating.

"He called me too but I didn't answer. I think I was scared."

"Why?" That is the million dollar question.

"I've just…I've been content and I didn't want to get snapped out of it. I didn't want to start questioning all of the good stuff in my life, you know? I question the bad stuff enough as it is."

"You still think he has that kind of power over you?" I think he's sad, or disappointed. I hate to think that I've disappointed him.

"I know he does," it isn't what he wants to hear.

I'm sliding the eggs onto a plate and draining the bacon. Something sad is hanging over the room. I recognize that feeling of failure, like an old friend. Chase's voice suddenly cuts through the silence. He sounds strong, in that subtle way that makes feel strong as well.

"I'm not going to tell you that you should talk to him. Maybe I don't open up enough but I want you to understand that I get it, or at least I think I do. I just can't watch another person give up. I don't think I would survive it."

"I'm not giving up."

"Then…just rejoin the world. I know you. You can't be happy as a retiree at thirty four."

"Why couldn't we have just had a nice quiet breakfast?" Is he right? Is he wrong? Maybe there really isn't a right or wrong answer to these kinds of questions. Sometimes it is more about what we have and what we don't have.

He reaches over and runs his hand over my cheek. It feels tender, and loving, and right. I feel guilty, like I don't deserve it.

After Chase leaves for the day, I pick up the phone and call House. I get more nervous with every ring. I almost don't want him to pick up the phone when he finally does.

"Cameron! Oh, how long has it been?" If I analyze this, I can keep it away from my psyche. If I analyze every word, I can keep us on an even playing field. There seems to be more pain in his voice. He seems strained.

"I don't know. A couple of years I think. I got your calls."

"So you've finally worked up a plan? I can tell by the fact that you're making sense that it isn't the Bob Marley plan. That didn't go over too well with Wilson huh?" I guess he's a little manic today.

"You and Wilson talked about that?"

"We're bros, we talk about everything." I'm rapidly losing control of this.

"Look…I felt obligated…"

"Of course you felt obligated. I bet you're ten times guiltier now than when you left. What's it like being hated by white guys with dreadlocks? They burn you in effigy outside of the WHO yet?"

Something happens and I feel totally at peace. I hang up the phone and turn it off. I'm just not willing to put in the effort, I just don't care enough to fight with House anymore. I'm going to make Chase some lunch. I'm going go to my study and write. I'm going to be happy.


End file.
